


Stand-In Pillow

by royalmycroft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Couch Cuddles, M/M, Prompt Fill, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tumblr: letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalmycroft/pseuds/royalmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt Fill. Sherlock relaxes, because people do that, right? Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stand-In Pillow

**Author's Note:**

> Challenge: #9 (letswritesherlock)  
> Prompt: Snowed In  
> A/N: Mindless, late Christmas fluff!

London was in disarray. In typical British fashion, the country was reacting badly to the weather that appeared over the course of the holiday weekend. It was days until Christmas, most shops were closed due to flooding and 221B Baker Street was one road of many to be hit by a torrential downfall of snow. Lots and lots of snow. Enough to freeze the windows closed, to jemmy the door shut completely and more than enough to make John Watson want to strangle Sherlock Holmes until he turned blue. And possibly died.

Over the course of the week, Sherlock had managed to almost get them killed twice. The first time was chasing a mugger-turned-murderer down an icy slope. The second time, they had both toppled off a bridge and into the river. Between these adventures, Mrs Hudson had left them a trifle whilst she visited a friend for a few days, Sherlock had hilariously gotten his tongue stuck to a pole ("it was an experiment, John!"), and the blog had reached a new milestone in hits. John was ready to relax for a while. Until he realized that Sherlock was prone to boredom at the slightest drop of a hat.

"Bored."

"Read a book."

"Dull."

"Watch paint dry."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Is that supposed to be funny? Because it isn't."

"You've done nothing but flop about on the carpet and moan about being bloody bored," John tutted from where he was sitting on the sofa. He was drinking tea without milk and the central heating wasn't doing a lot for his stiff shoulder. Sherlock's boredom routine had grown old. It was amusing at first, but it had gotten irritating quickly. "Why don't you at least sit on the furniture? You know, if that won't damage your mind palace too much. Can you do that for me?"

"No."

"You're a tit."

"You cut me deep, John."

John rubbed the space between his eyebrows. He glanced at Sherlock's mobile, which was sitting on the coffee table. There were no cases. Nothing. And even if half of London died in locked rooms overnight, Sherlock still wouldn't be able to get outside. Lestrade had told him to take a couple of days off. John was stuck inside of 221B for the weekend at least, with a bored sociopath and without milk.

"John?"

"Yes, close companion that I'm not fantasizing about murdering?"

"I'm bored."

"If I hear you say those words one more time-"

Before John could successfully threaten him, Sherlock crawled from the floor and onto the sofa, dropping his head heavily against John's leg. The doctor jumped in surprise, his tea almost spilling down his front. Sherlock smiled placidly to himself and closed his eyes.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Resting. Isn't that what people do on these kinds of days?"

"Not on their friend," John shuffled a little, stretching his leg out slightly. "People normally use a pillow or something."

"That's boring. You're more sufficient than a pillow."

"So now I'm a stand-in pillow as well as a stand-in skull?"

"Relax. You're doing fine."

Sherlock fell silent and John bit back a sigh. If it would stop the bloody relentless moaning, he supposed it was worth it. He set his cup down the side of the sofa and closed his own eyes. It was quite relaxing actually, the snow was falling in a flurried rush outside the window and the clouds darkened the room considerably. Sherlock's hair tickled his hand and his head was pleasantly warm against his leg, the heat seeping through the material of his jeans. At some point during his period of unwind, John's hand found its way into Sherlock's hair. It was a lot softer than it looked, actually. Felt a bit like a cat. He closed his eyes and thought wistfully of sleep, listening to the steady rhythm of Sherlock's breathing.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Are you petting me?"

"Shut up, Sherlock."


End file.
